


synchysis

by verity



Category: Voltron: Legendary Defender
Genre: Alternate Universe - College/University, Classics, M/M, gay prom, lgbtq student groups, literally falling in love
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-03-08
Updated: 2019-03-08
Packaged: 2019-11-13 13:19:44
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,813
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/18032474
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/verity/pseuds/verity
Summary: Keith has had two hours of sleep and eaten one basket of heat-lamp-marinated mozzarella sticks in the past day when he catches the Classics department’s hottest grad student in his arms.





	synchysis

**Author's Note:**

  * For [museaway](https://archiveofourown.org/users/museaway/gifts).



> thanks to MoreThanSlightly and zjofierose for the beta, to Ashe and spookyfoot for cheerleading, and to seabellss for the tomatoes.
> 
> additional thanks in endnotes.

Keith has had two hours of sleep and eaten one basket of heat-lamp-marinated mozzarella sticks in the past day when he catches the Classics department’s hottest grad student in his arms.

Books go everywhere. Keith’s coffee, secure in its battered orientation week thermos, rattles around the marble tile. He wheezes from the impact of Shiro slamming into him. Somehow, they’re still upright, standing on the narrow landing between the first and second floor of Castle Hall. Shiro’s hair smells distractingly like coconut; it’s tickling Keith’s nose.

“Holy shit,” says Shiro, staggering. “I’m so sorry.”

Keith bends over and braces his hands on his knees. “Are you okay?” he says as he tries to catch his breath.

“Yeah, yeah, I’m—” Shiro crouches down and starts gathering up their belongings. The Loeb translation of _Pro Caelio_ has splayed open on the black-and-white checkerboard floor, somehow giving off a judgmental air. Shiro smoothes the rumpled pages back into order and shuts it hastily before he grabs Keith’s collection of martyrdom texts. “I’m fine,” he says. “That landing is so narrow, I should have watched for the edge.”

Keith shakes his head, wordless. He kneels down, fingers scrabbling for the carabiner on this thermos. Ten seconds ago, he had Shiro in his arms. Ten seconds ago, he also took Shiro’s prosthetic right to the thorax. He wheezes again.

“Are _you_ okay, Keith?”

Fuck, Shiro knows his _name_. “Uh,” Keith says articulately. “I think so?”

Shiro winces. “Let me buy you coffee. It’s the least I can do.”

* * *

It’s good that Keith did not protest that he had coffee, because Shiro is now spending his precious campus food dollars on a large bold roast that is several hours fresher than what Hunk brewed in their ancient Mr. Coffee this morning. (Hunk’s coffee is undoubtedly more powerful, but that’s all it has going for it by now.) Keith immediately dumps in four packets of sugar. “Don’t watch me do this,” he says to Shiro as he stirs until the sludge at the bottom dissolves. “It upsets everyone.”

“Mmm,” Shiro says. “When I was in undergrad, I used to mainline vanilla black tea with half a cup of sugar and a quarter cup of half-and-half all through the exam period. I think you’re doing okay. What year are you again?”

Keith carefully seals the plastic lid on top of his cup. “Senior.” He tries to look mature, like someone not dying of exhaustion and gay thirst.

The cafe attached to the library is bustling at this time of day, but Shiro manages to snag them one of the coveted booths. They sit in silence for a moment, nursing their coffees. It’s less awkward than Keith expects, despite the fact his body can’t decide whether he should pass out immediately or vibrate right out of his skin. “You’re a first year,” Keith says, not asking. “For the MA?”

Shiro nods. “Yeah.” When he smiles, he looks like he should be in an Invisalign commercial, except hot. “I’m working on my teaching certificate, too.”

The classics department has two kinds of masters students—the ones who want to teach, like Shiro, and the ones who missed getting into a doctoral program the first time around. The second kind are generally insufferable. Keith picks at the cardboard sleeve on his cup and says the first the thing that comes to his mind. “Why do you have the Loeb?” he says. “The library only has the 1913 editions, those are garbage.”

Improbably, Shiro blushes. “I have a twenty-pager due next week. I should just be working from the source, but you know how it is.”

“Yeah,” Keith says, trying not to stare at the flush of pink on Shiro’s cheeks.

* * *

By the time Keith slams the front door of his apartment behind him, he’s literally vibrating with caffeine, sleep deprivation, and repressed weirdness. Thankfully, he’s finished both his Later Roman Empire paper and his Astronomy problem set, so he can just collapse onto the couch and make weird noises until Pidge smacks the soles of his feet so he’ll make room for them. “You know it’s Netflix time,” Pidge says as Keith curls into fetal position, tucking his knees up against his chest. “Are you going to stay for GBBO or not?”

“If you do... you have to make space... for me,” Hunk sing-songs as he comes out of the kitchen with a plate of chocolate-chip cookies. “And you get a cookie.” 

Because more sugar is really going to improve Keith’s situation.

Keith allows himself to be levered upright and shoved into the corner of the couch. His stomach rumbles as Hunk holds out the cookies; Keith takes two. Pidge cues up the next episode of season four before they pull _The Presocratic Philosophers_ out of their bag. Netflix time is Pidge’s homework time. It’s Hunk’s snack time. Today, it’s also Keith’s naptime.

The room is dark by the time Keith wakes up, but it’s February, so that doesn’t mean much. He can smell something cooking in the kitchen. Pidge is still sitting on the couch with him, having moved onto a more recent text on—Keith squints—Thales of Miletus. “Are you awake now?” they ask when Keith yawns. “I need to borrow your Middle Liddell, but I couldn’t find it in your room.”

Keith has blessedly dodged taking any Greek this semester, so his lexicon has definitely wandered… somewhere. Maybe under his bed? “I’ll look,” he says, rolling on his stomach to stretch his arms above his head, then letting them dangle off the couch.

“Also,” Pidge says, their voice turning serious, “I missed RAINBOW Alliance last week and Axca volunteered me to paint the rocks for GAYLA.”

Keith sighs. “So, what you’re saying is that she also volunteered me.”

“And me!” Hunk shouts from the kitchen.

Dramatically, Keith clutches a throw pillow to his chest, rolls over the edge of the couch, and allows himself to sprawl onto the floor.

* * *

Left to his own devices, Keith has never been a social animal. Three years ago, he definitely wouldn’t have let the hottest grad student in the Altea University Classics department—and possibly any department?—buy him coffee. However, he’s been worn down over the years by the relentless proximity of his classmates. He’s let himself get dragged to Kral Zera Medieval Combat matches, Rainbow Alliance meetings, and into a two-year lease with the queer half of the classics majors in his cohort. At some point, it’s not really dragging.

“I think we should make straight people paint this,” Hunk says as he heaves the pan of hot pink latex paint up the ladder. “Like, Lance. We should make Lance do it.”

Pidge rolls their eyes. “I thought Lance was your friend.”

“I thought I was your friend,” Hunk says mournfully. “And yet, here we are.”

Keith started out this morning wearing his oldest jeans and a too-tight hoodie from his old clothing pile, which turned out, in the light of the first Monday after spring break, to belong to Pidge. It says “VULVA LA REVOLUCIÓN” in hot pink letters, which are only partially legible under the matching spatter of paint from when Hunk accidentally dropped a roller on him fifteen minutes ago. He studies the sloppy sketch they’re working from and squints at the dates. “You know, GAYLA isn’t for like…a month.”

“I told you that already,” Pidge says. “It’s the weekend after April Welcome. This is the only week Lotor could get.”

Lotor is really falling down on the job as their evil bisexual representation on Student Union. Keith sighs. “And why are we painting a seal again? Are seals gay now?”

“Yes,” Hunk says firmly. “All cute animals are gay, and I love them.”

This is the moment that Shiro emerges from the underpass walkway like a Disney Prince walking out of the forest into a clearing populated by Keith, his roommates, and two large cement sculptures covered in an unappealing combination of flaking and wet paint. His face lights up as he strides toward them. “Good morning, Keith!”

“Hey,” Keith says weakly. God, only Shiro could be this hot in an Altea U sweatshirt and khakis.

“Good morning, grad student!” Pidge yells, loud enough that two doe-eyed freshmen glance over at them as they pass.

Shiro stops in front of the rocks, shielding his eyes from the early morning sun with his hand. “Morning, Pidge and—it’s Hunk, right?”

“Hi... grad student!” Hunk waves.

Shiro waves back. “I’m Shiro!” Then he levels a devastating smile at Keith. “Good luck with this.”

“Oh boy,” Pidge says as Shiro walks away.

“Give me the stencil,” Keith says through gritted teeth. “I’ll do the seal.”

* * *

Because this is Keith’s life, things go downhill from there.

“Let’s get lunch,” Shiro says when they run into each other coming out of seminar rooms at noon on Wednesday, which turns into lunch on Friday and the following Monday, too, and then it’s all three days every week that Keith gets out of his class on ancient comedy and Shiro wraps up his on Horace. They stroll down to the student center so Keith can get a questionable cheeseburger and Shiro can get a burrito the size of his head.

He doesn’t seem to mind that Keith isn’t very talkative, which means that Keith feels comfortable talking after a while. “Where did you go to undergrad?” he says, even though he could just look on Facebook. 

“Garrison,” Shiro says. “I don’t miss the summers down there.”

Keith laughs. “I grew up near there. It’s hot as fuck. I like it better here, too.”

“How’d you end up at Altea, anyway?”

“Free tuition for faculty kids,” Keith says, which is what he always says when people ask.

Keith’s grades were good enough to get him into the University of Chicago, but after spending most of her life in Turkey, his mom got a professorship here when he was in high school. The choice wasn’t hard: he’s spent more time with Krolia in the last three years than he has in the rest of his life, when they were separated by complex visa issues and then Keith’s disappearance into foster care.

Shiro doesn’t know any of this, of course. His eyes light up with interest. “What department is your mom in?”

“Archaeology,” Keith says. “She did a lot of work on Yarimburgaz Cave. There’s a, um, documentary?”

It would have been weird to major in a department where his mom is a full professor, and even weirder given that she’s leading scholar in her field. Classics is close, but it’s not too close. The later Roman Empire covers the same location, but it’s not the same time period. 

“Wow,” Shiro says, toying with the discarded foil from his burrito. His eyes aren’t on his plate; he’s giving Keith the full weight of his gaze, warm and brown-eyed and clear. “That’s pretty cool. What are _you_ working on?”

As soon as Keith opens his mouth, he knows he’s going to do the thing where his eyes roll back in his head and turn black like he’s being possessed by a demon, but instead of a demon, it’s just his thesis. “So,” he says, resigned. “You know when Constantine moved the capital of the Roman Empire to Byzantium...”

* * *

There’s only one person Keith knows who can discuss their thesis topic casually, but Lance just talks about numismatics like everyone else is obviously knowledgeable about the introduction of Roman coinage to Briton, which is possibly weirder. Unfortunately, the incestuous nature of the classics department means that Keith can’t escape weird half-conversations about 3rd century denarii discoveries in Yorkshire unless he’s alone or at a social event where Lance is otherwise occupied. Like today.

“Hey,” Shiro says, sitting down next to Keith on a bench. “I brought you coffee. Four packets of sugar, right?”

Keith only drinks his coffee like that when he’s preparing for imminent death and/or exams, but—Shiro remembered his coffee order? Shiro brought him coffee? Shiro is here at the Kral Zera tourney, holding a ridiculous flag sloppily silk-screened with the Altea University heraldry? “Yeah, that’s it,” he says, taking the cup. “Thanks. Um, for remembering.”

Shiro looks inordinately pleased for 9am on a Saturday.

The sole reason that Keith is not only awake, but also dressed and sitting in a lawn chair on the quad, is that half the classics department is competing this morning and if he sits through two hours of people hitting each other with foam-padded swords, there will be Hunk-provided cupcakes. Cupcakes that Keith is currently guarding with his life, tucked into the stack of plastic containers beneath his camping chair. Shiro unfolds one of the ancient folding chairs that someone stole from the dining hall and sits right next to Keith. “I promised Hunk I’d come. He said that most of your cohort does.”

“Someone has to take embarrassing photos of Lance and post them on Facebook.”

“Of course,” Shiro says dryly. Then he squints at the field, where the Altea University is getting into formation at Allura’s direction. “What does he have on his face?”

Keith sighs. “Woad.”

“He really is into Briton, huh,” Shiro says after a moment.

Keith refrains from making a comment about straight people.

They slip into an easy silence as Pidge leads the charge, Lance and Hunk close behind them, with Allura at their flank. A couple of the kids from the theater department have also painted their faces in honor of the team’s Celtic theme; everyone’s wearing grass-stained tunics in Altea University white-and-blue. Romelle is out on the field with her iPhone, recording video of the match. 

Now that everyone’s distracted, Keith fishes under his chair for the smallest container. “Want a cupcake?” he says to Shiro.

Shiro raises an eyebrow. “I heard those were for later.”

Keith pulls up the lid with a _pop_. “I’ll make an exception.”

The cupcakes are chocolate with salted caramel icing. Keith gets the torturous reward of watching Shiro lick the icing off the top, then wipe the corners of his mouth clean with his thumb before he starts in on the cake. At the first bite, he closes his eyes in bliss. “This is amazing,” he says.

“Yeah,” Keith says, trying not to sound like he’s wondering whether Shiro’s cupcake face looks like his orgasm face. “Hunk’s—yeah. They’re pretty good.”

* * *

The worst thing about Shiro isn’t even that he’s hot, or that he remembers Keith’s horrible coffee preferences, or that he watches Keith’s mom’s documentary and has follow-up questions, like whether or not the tomatoes in Turkey are really as good as Krolia claims and why that footage made it into the documentary. The worst thing isn’t even that his master’s thesis is on Horace, objectively the most boring poet to come out of ancient Rome. The worst thing is definitely how nice Shiro is to all of them.

Most of the grad students avoid the undergrads except at events like the Quilari Lecture Series, where they’re all equally focused on the cheese cubes and mediocre sliced fruit on toothpicks. Shiro spends a whole afternoon talking to Hunk about material culture in North Africa and reads the first chapter of Allura’s paper on the _Papyri Graecae Magicae_ even though he’s not TA-ing for Professor Coran’s Ancient Magic course. He and Pidge have a twenty-comment thread on Blackboard about _De Rerum Natura that Keith reads through even though he doesn’t give a shit about Lucretius._

Shiro is going to be such a good teacher. Keith wishes he weren’t so intensely horny about it.

Maybe this would be easier if Keith hadn’t literally held Shiro in his arms. He knows the warm weight of Shiro’s body, the way he smells, and he’d like to revisit the experience without the narrowly averted death part. He could listen to Shiro talk about Horace’s use of Alcaic meters and themes for hours. This is awful.

* * *

“I hear the big dance is coming up,” Krolia says as she pushes the container of pork lo mein across the oaken slab of her dining room table toward Keith. “Will you be attending?”

Keith shoves an entire dumpling in his mouth and chews.

His mom laughs. “Oh, I forgot that your social life is off-limits.”

“Pidge would kill me if I didn’t show up,” Keith says when he’s gotten the whole dumpling down. “They’re taking being on the organizing committee very seriously.”

“I hear from Honerva that it’s going to be quite a party.”

“I’m sure she would say that,” Keith says diplomatically.

Honerva is the lone archaeologist in the department studying Greece and Mycenae, so almost every undergrad in the classics department has sat through Homeric Archaeology and listened to her claim that she’s discovered the tomb of Odysseus on Ithaca. Her husband is on the university board and her son is… well... Lotor. The best that can be said of him is that he’s less heterosexual than most of the business school.

“Are you bringing a date?” Krolia says.

“No.”

“But you want to bring a date!” His mom looks delighted.

“Mom!” Keith does not turn the color of a Karacabey tomato, but it’s close. “Stop.”

“Keith, you don’t ever have to date anyone unless you want to,” Krolia says. “But if you want to—I want you to be happy. That’s all.”

Keith takes box of lo mein and dumps some onto his plate. “I know.”

Even after three years, there’s still something magical about arguing with his mom—about being _able_ to, and knowing she won’t go away. Getting her back always seemed like an impossible dream. But she’s here now, and so is Keith. He’s not planning on going away.

“Uh, so,” he says to his noodles. “I got into the doctoral program at Altea.”

Krolia is silent for long enough that Keith looks up from his plate. She’s stiff in her chair, hand covering her mouth. “But you applied to Balmera and Oriande. You haven’t even heard back.”

“If I stay here, I can keep working with Kolivan. I don’t have to decide yet.”

Is Krolia crying? Keith is not prepared for this part of having a parent. “Okay,” she says eventually. “Just let me know.”

Keith reaches across the table to pat her hand. Inwardly, he congratulates himself. She’s definitely going to stop asking about GAYLA.

* * *

The day of GAYLA dawns dark and stormy.

Keith lies in bed for half an hour thinking about Shiro showing up late at the ball like Cinderella and Keith pulling him into his arms. This is definitely a fantasy, because Keith doesn’t even know if Shiro is queer and also, it’s GAYLA, how often is the BPM going to drop below 120? Still, it’s nice to think about. Keith groans into his pillow and rolls over to grab his phone off the nightstand.

There’s a message from Shiro. 

Sleepily, Keith fumbles it open. _Do you guys need help decorating?_ A second message. _For GAYLA._ As if Keith was decorating anything else today, or ever.

 _probs yes,_ he replies very articulately.

_Want to get coffee first?_

Keith’s burning crush on Shiro would be a lot easier to endure if Shiro would stop doing stuff like this. _sure, but setup isnt until 4 and I need to work on a paper first._

Shiro is already typing a response. Keith stares at the dotted grey bubble for long moments until the reply comes through. _Me too :) I’ll bring my laptop._

This is how Keith dies. It’ll be a nice death, at least.

* * *

At least Gerontius’s hagiography of Melania the Younger proves a good distraction for most of the day. Keith sips his nuclear-sweet coffee and tries not to stare at the sharp line of Shiro’s jaw, his well-defined biceps, or his soft pink lips. He does less well at not staring at Shiro’s ass while he gets on a ladder to help with the streamers in Lion Hall, where GAYLA will be tonight. Apparently, there’s a circus theme, which explains the rainbow seal balancing a ball on its nose. 

“Thanks,” Keith says as they’re putting away the ladders. “You really didn’t have to do this.”

Shiro shrugs, tucking his hands into his pockets. “I wanted to. We didn’t have anything like this at Garrison.”

Keith laughs. “Yeah, that’s why I didn’t apply there.”

Shiro is quiet for a moment. “The atmosphere wasn’t too friendly.”

“Oh,” Keith says.

“I was going to be a pilot, so it made sense. But...” Shiro holds up his arm—the prosthetic. “Now I’m doing something else, and you know what? I’m glad I’m here.”

Keith swallows. “I’m glad you’re here, too.”

Somehow, they’re standing very close now. Tension stretches between them for a charged minute. Shiro still has his hand on the rungs of one of the ladders. Keith wants to drag him into the storage closet.

“Why the FUCK do these ONLY have XLR jacks and yet you have ZERO cables OR adapters?” Axca screams behind them. “HOW am I supposed to WORK like THIS?”

The spell is broken.

“I, um.” Keith says. “I should get dressed.”

Shiro bites his lip. “Yeah. Me too.”

* * *

“What do you think?” Keith says to Hunk when he comes out of his room.

Hunk has paired neon green shorts and a Hawaiian shirt in equally shrill colors; every inch of exposed skin is covered in glitter. He scrutinizes Keith’s outfit. “It’s definitely appropriate for GAYLA,” he says thoughtfully.

Keith’s wearing a metallic mesh shirt, black pleather leggings, and strappy cherry-red heels. Where else is he supposed to wear these? “Thanks?”

“You look like a twink,” Pidge says, patting his shoulder. They’re wearing gold lamé shorts and a tailcoat with an enormous cravat. “Not in a bad way.”

Hunk holds up a makeup stick. “Want me to sparkle you?”

The sun hasn’t quite set, but it’s so muted by heavy grey clouds that it might as well be night. Keith totters unsteadily down the sidewalk after Pidge and Hunk, questioning his life and shoe choices, but they live close to campus and the walk to Lion Hall isn’t long. Pidge’s brother Matt is working the front door, carding and hand-stamping; he lights up when he sees them. “Wow, you definitely dressed for the circus theme. Two grown-ups and one kiddo, right?”

Pidge folds their arms as Hunk and Keith hold out their hands for the stamp. “I’m not a kiddo, I’m the _ringmaster_.”

“This is what you get for skipping seventh grade,” Matt says blithely.

Inside Lion Hall, the lights have dimmed and Madonna is playing. Lotor and his lesbian entourage are slouching around the DJ booth; only a few brave souls are on the dance floor. “I guess we have to start the party,” Hunk says with a grin. “Where’s the bar?”

Keith chugs a rum and coke before he heads onto the floor. Pidge somehow convinced engineering to lend GAYLA the 256-color LED dancefloor that usually only comes out for the annual engineering rave; the glitter on Hunk’s calves winks rainbow with the changing lights. Axca has fixed whatever was wrong with the aux cables, so “Toxic” is now blaring out of the sound system at full volume. Opening with the classics—Keith respects that.

Just as she cues up “Danger! High Voltage!”, Shiro walks in. 

He’s wearing a tuxedo. A tuxedo and a little bowtie. As Shiro approaches, Keith wobbles toward the edge of the dancefloor, forgetting the six-inch drop, and Shiro lunges forward to catch him as he falls. Keith’s face lands right in the curve of his neck. He can’t help but laugh as Shiro steadies him, leaving his hands on Keith’s hips. 

_FIRE IN THE DISCO, FIRE IN THE TACO BELL_ , blares over the speakers.

God, Shiro smells just the way Keith remembered. “Hi,” Keith says, glancing up. “You made it.”

Shiro smiles at him. “Just in time, apparently.”

“Yeah,” Keith says dreamily.

“Do you want to dance?”

Bravely, Keith leans in closer. “I think we already are,” he says.

“Oh,” Shiro says. “I see. Yes.”

Shiro is not a very good dancer, but it’s not that hard to dance to Electric 6. Or Janelle Monae. Or Beyonce. Keith didn’t imagine his slow dance fantasy taking place to “Halo” while he holds his high heels behind Shiro’s neck, but it’s really nice, actually. It’s better. This is—happening. Holy shit.

* * *

Outside, it is raining.

“I don’t think I can put my shoes back on,” Keith says, dismayed. “I guess… I can just walk barefoot.”

“I’ll walk you home,” Shiro says.

The party is still going on inside, but they’re under the arch that leads into the empty courtyard, getting some cool air. Shiro has his jacket folded neatly over his arm; the back of his shirt is soaked with sweat. Keith can’t help but gravitate closer to him again. “Don’t you live on the other side of campus?” he says, putting a hand on Shiro’s arm. 

“Yeah,” Shiro says. “I don’t mind.”

There’s no one else out here; even beneath the shelter of the arch, the wind is blowing a fine mist on them. Keith tilts his head up, meeting Shiro’s eyes for a long moment. Shiro leans down and presses his lips to Keith’s gently before he pulls away.

“ _Shiro_ ,” Keith says, and then, “Do it again.”

This time, Shiro backs Keith right up against the wall and kisses him for real—his tongue hot in Keith’s mouth, one thigh between Keith’s legs, grinding up against him. One side of Keith’s face is getting battered with rain, his bare feet are wet and chilled, and if they keep doing this, he’s going to come in his pants. They kiss until Keith’s mouth is bruised and his teeth are chattering.

Shiro pulls away, panting. “Let me take you home. You’re cold, you should wear my jacket.”

Keith glances up from beneath his lashes. “Put it on me,” he says.

* * *

The rain stops being romantic as soon as they get out into the quad. Keith’s feet keep slipping in the rivulets flowing over the sidewalk; he can’t stop shivering, even beneath the shelter of Shiro’s jacket. “I hope you didn’t rent your tuxedo,” he says, steering Shiro under the cover of the trees that line the path as they turn toward the edge of campus. “They’re not going to like getting it back after this.”

Shiro laughs. He’s got his pants rolled up at the ankle; his loafers must be hopelessly soggy. “It’s mine, don’t worry. I’ll get it cleaned.” He reaches for Keith’s hand, swinging free between them. “I don’t mind.”

By the time they get to Keith's apartment building, even Shiro's jacket is soaked through. Keith drips his way into the foyer and pulls his keys out of his wristlet. "Come in. I mean, to dry off. If you—" 

"That would be great," Shiro says as Keith pushes open the door.

Abruptly, Keith sees his familiar, messy apartment with the eyes of a stranger, and then he focuses on the bite of his keyring into his palm. He might have daydreamed about Shiro waltzing into his arms, but that doesn't mean he imagined Shiro waltzing into his life. As if anything could have prepared him. 

"Let me get you a towel," Keith says, avoiding eye contact with Pidge's trashcan of Mountain Dew empties. "I bet Hunk has something dry you can borrow."

Keith emerges with a pair of soft sweatpants to find Shiro wringing his pants out in the bathtub. His wet dress shirt is straight out of the 1995 _Pride and Prejudice_. "Great Scott," Shiro mutters to himself as rainwater sloshes around the tub. 

"I found you pants," Keith says, trying not to stare.

Shiro glances up at him warmly. "Thanks."

It's strangely intimate sharing his own bathroom with someone, even like this. Keith hesitates for a moment before he sets the pants down on top of the radiator to warm and folds himself down on the floor next to Shiro. Carefully, he touches Shiro's cheek. "I got glitter on you."

"Yeah?" Shiro smiles.

Keith can't help but kiss him.

* * *

ἐπίλογος

The Eta Sigma Phi banquet is substantially smaller than GAYLA, but Hunk takes planning just as seriously. "I don't remember having to wear a costume last year," Pidge says, scrutinizing the email. "Or—getting _assigned_ one?"

"Just seniors!" Hunk says. "Come on, you know we have to have Allura and Lance as Aphrodite and Ares. Coran says he'll be Zeus."

Ugh. Keith wrinkles his nose. "I'm not wearing a chiton."

"Hmm." Shiro peeks over Keith's shoulder. "You'd make a cute Apollo." 

Keith is definitely not blushing. "No."

"I could dress like a tree."

"No."

"That's a great idea, Shiro! You can put wreaths on everyone!"

"Why doesn't Shiro go as Artemis and _I_ can go as Daphne?"

"No."

"Baby, I'll be your laurel."

**Author's Note:**

> thank you, saezutte, for first describing Lotor as "evil bisexual representation."
> 
> I'm [@regretsonmain](https://twitter.com/regretsonmain) on Twitter.


End file.
